


wreathe lovely garlands

by casualbird



Series: gilbert week 2020 [4]
Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Crafts, Developing Relationship, Fluff, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-11
Updated: 2020-09-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:35:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26408827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/casualbird/pseuds/casualbird
Summary: The flowers, though, are foremost in his mind. Hanneman’s sitting room, where he’s been a tentative guest, is full of them. Dried bouquets are suspended from the walls, pressed flowers hang in frames. Even Hanneman’s tablecloth, with its old yellowing lace, is tatted with roses.Gilbert makes post-war austerity just a little nicer for Hanneman.
Relationships: Hanneman von Essar/Gilbert Pronislav
Series: gilbert week 2020 [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877788
Comments: 3
Kudos: 13
Collections: Gilbert Week 2020





	wreathe lovely garlands

_but you, o dika, wreathe lovely garlands in your hair,  
weave shoots of dill together, with slender hands,  
for the graces prefer those who are wearing flowers,  
and turn away from those who go uncrowned.  
_

* * *

Even moons after the peace, there are no flowers in the marketplace at Garreg Mach. What fields haven’t been scorched-earth salted were tilled up for staple crops — even the greenhouse still grows only vegetables. Wildflowers, too, are a bust, the fields around the monastery having been consigned to trampling under fervent drilling exercises.

It is not the worst of wartime scarcity, Gilbert knows well. Though supply lines have slackened, though rations are fuller, fresher, it is still a concern to feed everyone. No metal for anything other than weapons, no stone not for mending rent buildings. He pores over the ledgers, allocates — it’s the least he can do.

The flowers, though, are foremost in his mind. Hanneman’s sitting room, where he’s been a tentative guest, is full of them. Dried bouquets are suspended from the walls, pressed flowers hang in frames. Even Hanneman’s tablecloth, with its old yellowing lace, is tatted with roses.

And… “I know I’ve many more important things to concern myself with,” Hanneman told him once, fiddling with his lapel, “but it always was cheerful, wearing a boutonniere.”

Gilbert had just nodded, unsure of what to say. But it made sense, it definitely did. There were plenty of frivolities in the world that one could not properly appreciate until they’d gone--not that Gilbert was in the habit of indulging in them. And before the war, when Gilbert had first come to Garreg Mach… he’d always noticed the dapper professor, his cheery little green carnation.

Besides. With the end of the war, though logistics are still a great bone of contention, Gilbert finds himself with more free time than is entirely comfortable. So. Some scrap wood, the minutest of blades, a fire to last all night.

The first several break apart in his hands. The next are simply… odd, little accidents of creation. He sighs, shifts sore muscles, changes tack.

Falls asleep at his writing desk, because he is no longer a young man.

The following night is better, but still not entirely serviceable. His fingers ache, and his neck as well, from hunching. It doesn’t seem like reason enough to stop; not when he thinks of the way Hanneman sparkles when he’s pleased. The way his eyes crinkle at the corners, just the—the genuine, simple liveliness of him. _Joie de vivre,_ Gilbert might have said, if he’d ever heard the phrase.

So. It takes nigh on a fortnight, and then there is some searching that must be done for a pin, for a little paint. He wonders if he wouldn’t have been better served rolling flowers out of paper, or learning embroidery, because what he’s got, what’s there when he’s too low on materials to try again is… a tad lumpy. The petals, carved in low relief, are of mismatched shapes and sizes, and that’s not even starting with the leaves, the contour of the stem.

Gilbert bites down hard on the inside of his cheek, insists to himself that he is a skilled enough craftsman. That Hanneman deserves a little gift, at the very, very least. And so he slips it in a small box, the sort that used to hold tea leaves, wraps it in plain paper, leaves it at the center of Hanneman’s desk.

It is a lucky thing that Hanneman isn’t secretive about his research, that he never locks his office, because goodwill, effort expended, _affection_ aside, wild wyverns couldn’t make Gilbert hand it off in person.

 _Imperfect,_ he thinks, _and a presumptuous gift._ Curls his fingers, imagines a world where Hanneman, disappointed with the trinket, does not realize it’s from him.

The next time he sees him, though--Hanneman glimmers. A jaunt in his step, a knowing smile quirking thin lips, and the brooch, pinned high and proud on his lapel.

**Author's Note:**

> green carnations mean GAY!!!!!!!!!!! it's true just ask arthur conan doyle.
> 
> this is my last piece for gilbert week! i couldn't quite manage all the days, but i hope you enjoyed what i did come up with! let me know what you thought, and so long as you're 18+, you are welcome to talk sad dads with me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/bird_scribbles)
> 
> title and epigraph are from a.s. kline's translation of sappho.
> 
> thank you!!


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